Thursday, 11 October 2012

NEWSPAPERS AND PUBLIC READINGS by John A. A. Logan

I
hadn’t done a public reading in ten years, not since I was invited to read out
my short story, Bringing Something Back, at the Edinburgh International Book
Festival in 2002. That had been fifteen minutes standing at a microphone in a
tent called a Yurt. Including expenses, £155 for fifteen minutes “work”. Not
bad, I had thought then. The wine had been free that day too, of course. Even a
fish and chip supper paid for by Ron Turnbull, then-editor of Edinburgh Review.

And
here I was, ten years later, on Friday 28th September 2012, due to
attend a meeting of the Alliance of Independent Authors in Inverness, where I
had been invited to do a wee reading from my novel, The Survival of Thomas
Ford.

7.30pm
at the Glen Mhor Hotel.

I
Googled it. Nice old building, slate roof, not bad stonework.

I
hadn’t been there for many years.

Glen Mhor Hotel, Inverness

After
releasing my new ebook, Storm Damage, on 2nd September, I’d
contacted the local newspapers who had taken an interest in The Survival of
Thomas Ford back in February.

Interest
was still there.

On
September 14th, The Northern Times published an article about Storm
Damage in their Arts and Lifestyle section:

“WEB
PATH WORKS FOR JOHN’S NEW COLLECTION: Writer prefers download copies of work to
printed versions”

Soon,
another local newspaper wanted to do a feature article too.

They
invited me to come into their office at 4pm on Friday 28th
September, to be photographed for the article. The idea was to get a dark,
shadowy, atmospheric picture.

Hmm.

That
might be a good way to get warmed up for the reading at the Hotel later that
day.

Margaret
Chrystall, the journalist kind enough to be interested in my work, suggested I
bring in my book covers as props, but of course, I have no physical books, only
ebooks.

Perhaps
I could bring the Kindle?

I
looked out the window. Sunny. But spots of rain.

I
didn’t want to risk my Kindle’s well-being.

I
was 86 per cent through my read of Reb MacRath’s dazzling, visceral, heart-wrenching
masterpiece, The Vanishing Magic of Snow…

A
friend had gotten me a cover for my Kindle though, so maybe I could carry it
safely.

I’d
never used it, I went to look for it.

It
wasn’t waterproof, and it wouldn’t fit in my jacket pocket, I’d have to carry
it, a bit like a man-purse, as I travelled by bus, taxi, and on foot to make my
way around Inverness.

My
original plan had been to print out pages and take paper with me to the Hotel
reading.

“Spindrift
pages” as Dylan Thomas might have said, or did say.

But
surely, an e-author should show up to do a reading from an e-reader?

And
the photographer needed a prop for the article. What better?

I
got lost on the way to the newspaper office.

The
sun beat down on my man-purse kindle-case as I walked along.

Then
the rain came. I had to take the Kindle out of the case and put it in my inside
jacket pocket, zip up the jacket tight.

At
the newspaper office, at the very edge of the town by the sea, I found myself
in a proper photographer’s studio. The “shoot” before mine had been for a vodka
advert.

To
be lit ominously from below, I had to stand on a tilted source-light, holding
it in place.

The
photographer, Alasdair Allen, had me lean my weight on the table, sometimes
looking down at the Kindle, sometimes looking up.

Like
torture stress positions, the muscles ache, the sweat runs.

The
flash goes off in the eyes.

After
an hour, we had something, some frozen image, almost eerie.

Or,
as a friend said later, after the article was published in the Inverness
Courier and the Highland News last week, under the title, “Ebooks Light Up
Inverness Writer’s Life”:

“Loved
the photo…perched over the desk like some Satanic bird of prey.”

Photographer: Alasdair Allen

Back
in town, I realised I was too early for the Hotel reading.

A
café then. Tea. I got my Kindle out again, never used one in public before,
seemed quite natural though.

Then
the terror struck.

What
was I going to read at the Hotel?

As
I sat in the café, I tried reading The Survival of Thomas Ford from the
beginning.

Then
I tried reading chapter six as an extract. Then chapter thirteen as an extract.

Nothing
worked.

If
I read one bit out of context it sounded too “shouty”, like bad Irvine Welsh;
another bit sounded too dry and literary; another bit too intellectual; another
bit, too rife with sex or violence.

These
murky waters I did not know. I sensed sharks there. Unfathomable depths rising
up to my knees.

Nearly
time for the hotel anyway.

I
stood on the street, half an hour early, in the rain again, Kindle safe in my
jacket pocket.

There
was the roof and the stonework, just like the Google image.

Inside,
no-one at reception. I glance to the left. A woman shifting beyond glass panes.
I look again.

Orna
Ross!Head of the Alliance of Independent Authors; author of After the Rising, Before the Fall, Blue Mercy.We
stand and talk, both too early.

She
tells me my reading will be fine.

I
tell her I’m still in love with this epublishing lark.

I
can see it’s still agreeing with her too.

In
the room where the meeting will be we take our seats.

There
are people there also interested in these epublishing larks, some familiar
faces in the group too, famous and accomplished local authors from the world of
paperback publishing.

One
of them is the first editor ever to publish any of my short stories in the late
1990s, the novelist, Angus Dunn, author of Writing in the Sand.

Anne
MacLeod is there too, author of The Dark Ship.

And
Peter Urpeth, author of Far Inland.

And
Eileen Campbell, author of Barra’s Angel.

It
should be them reading surely, not me, when did reality get inverted?

But
I canvas opinion, the consensus is clear: It is always best to read from the
beginning of the novel.

My
instinct had been telling me the same thing for days; that photoshoot must have
discombobulated my mind.

Mankind
was perhaps never destined to be lit from below, like some Gargoyle flying over
the raked coals of Hell. (Still, it made for a good, spooky photo!)

I
was not to read until the end of the meeting anyway.

First,
epublishing was discussed. Questions, answers, a lively roll of talk,
excitement about a sea of new possibilities.

No
doom or gloom here. No defeat, or spleen or mean; just facts and
hope.

The
talk billowed to and fro for moments on psychic waves.

Catherine
Czerkawska’s Weeping Crocodiles piece was brought up, as a salutary balm for
our times; Orna smiled, and said that piece was already ensconced safe, in the
e-pages of ALLIA’s upcoming INDIE AUTHOR MANUAL.

That
deep thread pulled at my guts again, I brought up John Kennedy Toole, Mikhail
Bulgakov, Giuseppe Tomasi Di Lampedusa: their novels never published in their
lifetime…Lampedusa reading his rejection letters on his death-bed…Toole dying
with his novel unknown until his mother got it published 11 years after his
death…Bulgakov dying at 48, blind, dictating corrections to his wife for his
unburnable manuscript, and yet that manuscript, THE MASTER AND MARGARITA, lying
unpublished for 27 years after Bulgakov’s death, until his wife got it out to
the world.

I
had tried to talk about that in London in April, while on an author panel for
the launch of the Alliance of Independent Authors at London Book Fair, with Dan
Holloway, Linda Gillard, Joni Rodgers.

That
day it hadn’t quite worked.

I
hadn’t really found the words yet.

The
depth of the importance of this sea change of possibility, that could lead to a
reduction or stoppage in the censorship of certain voices.

But
here, in Inverness, it seemed right to speak of it.

And
then, suddenly, it was time to read from The Survival of Thomas Ford.

I
read as though I was trying to get to the end of chapter one, even though I
knew there was not time enough to get there.

I
had to become the narrator; I had to become Jimmy; I had to become Robert; I had
to swear loudly at a room full of people when Jimmy did. Strange, strange
business. No-one called the police.

I
heard footsteps leaving. I couldn’t stop or look up. A man leaving for his
train.

I
heard a second pair of footsteps leaving. I waited for them to throw a net over
me and make me stop reading. The e-words danced before my eyes. I couldn’t see
them. I couldn’t tell whether I was really reading from the Kindle, or was I
e-blind now and reciting Thomas Ford from crazed, deep-banked memory.

The
footsteps came back again. The novelist, Orla Broderick, kindly bringing me a
glass of water!

I
gulped greedily and the reading was over.

In
the bar later, there was talk of novels and stories and dreams.

Walking
home alone by the river, the moonlight sparkled in the rippling water, like
under-lighting sent up by some fresh-water Poseidon.

I
leaned on the iron railings by the river, Kindle safely in my pocket,
rain-drops dancing merrily on the top of my head.

8 comments:

Lovely 'day in the life' piece, John. Fantastic photo, which really suits the image of Thos Ford. Kudos to you for getting such press interest that they spent money on a photographer!Your description of reading from 'Thomas' reminds me of my own collywobbles when I had to choose a passage to read. If I'd ever thought I'd have to declaim some scenes out loud, I couldn't have written them. There's something very peeled about the way we write when we're only aware of the page. Blurting it all out in public seems too much.

Reading in public - sounds terrifying - congratulations!And as a slight diversion - I was happy to see that The Master and Margarita has just been republished and was taking pride of place on one of the Waterstones stands when I was in there earlier!

I always take my book covers to talks. What I do is to print out the cover image that I had for uploading to Kindle and print it out on photograph paper, A4 size. I use an inkjet colour printer for that instead of my usual laser printer. Inkjet printers are quite cheap, it's the ink that's the expense. Good luck with the next talk, although it doesn't really get easier.

John - your blog reads like an accomplished short story in itself.I've enjoyed doing public readings, often in schools. Although it's scary, when I begin, I find myself taking on another persona, but then, as a mainly children's author, I do read aloud a lot when I'm working.

Ha, ha! Wow! A typical writer -- far more at home in front of a lonely keyboard then engaging in "performance art" in public, even if it is the fine and deep tradition of reading one's work to a live audience. Charles Dickens practically lived to read his works in public ... oh well ... also, your extreme caution with your Kindle is well understood -- I just sent my FOURTH UNIT TO THE GRAVE! NOT KIDDING! (dropped, sat on, etc.) -- Amazon has graciously replaced 3 of the 4 for FREE! Anyway -- amazing pic. Can't wait to read your new short story collection on my fifth, shiny new Kindle ... cheers, all ...

Nice post. I must admit I love doing readings. But I began my writing life as a poet/playwright and did poetry readings while I was still young enough not to be shy! Also, I think most playwrights have to 'read in' some parts during auditions / rehearsals and watching actors at work helps to get you used to the idea of reading in public, what works and what doesn't. I still find myself reading vast tracts of whatever I'm working on aloud. I've read my own stories on radio, too - huge fun, once you get used to the idea that scripts rustle! It also makes you aware of what you're asking actors to do. I still remember quoting a Robert Burns letter - 'The whipt syllabub of epistolatory compliment' in a play, without realising just what a tongue twister it would be. 'No' said the actor. 'Don't change it. I can do it.' And he did!

Best Blog yet, Mr. Logan. Hmmm... channelling both Jimmy and Robert in the same evening with a mention of The Master and Margarita? Was the floor starting to move a bit? Could Woland and the cat have been far away? Sounds like a seriously literary evening, but the telling of it was almost as good!